


Produce Deliveries

by zvi



Category: Smallville
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, PWP, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-03
Updated: 2003-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvi/pseuds/zvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The women of Smallville must have seen the power of that euphemism long before Lex showed up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Remember season 1 and 2 Clark? He was all pretty and sweet and _young_? Someone on #smallville suggested that at least some of the ladies in Smallville must have tripped that up, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Clark doublechecked the pink slip of paper against the produce left in the truck: two bushels of apples, a half pound of leeks, and two pounds of turnip. Then he checked to make sure the key to the truck was safely clipped to his belt. Checked the pink slip one more time and congratulated himself on not screwing up the deliveries his first day out.

He leaned on the doobell. "Mrs. Thompson? I've got your produce." The door was open with the screen closed, so he looked in; the house looked clean, but the windows were shuttered and the room dark. Everyone else on his route had been waiting for him or left a note. "Mrs. Thompson?"

A slightly slurred voice drifted in from the right. "Just a second, sweetie. The screen's open if you've got a free hand."

"No such luck, Mrs. Thompson."

Mrs. Thompson appeared. She was tying a big green robe tightly around her. "Call me Bobbie, Clark." Her smile was easy as she opened the door.


	2. Chapter 2

She looked surprised when she saw how much he was carrying. "It's a terrible cliché, Clark, but, my, how you've grown."

He could feel himself blushing for no good reason. "Almost a foot this summer. I guess I haven't seen you at church in a while." He shrugged, remembered he was carrying too much. "Um, where do you want these to go, Mrs. Thompson? Bobbie."

"Bring it in the kitchen. You sure you don't need some help?"

He puffed dramatically a few times and shook his head. "It's not far, is it?"

She walked through an open doorway to a big, sunlit room. The kitchen was warm. He could smell baking bread and sweet spices: cinnamon, vanilla, ginger. "Just put 'em in the corner, sweetie. I'm on a binge."

He checked himself in the act of putting down the produce. "Mrs. Tho — Bobbie?"

"Baking and preserves, Clark. Nothing scary." She grinned at him and he finally set down the fruit and vegetables.

His arms hurt, not from the weight, but the awkwardness of the position. He still wasn't sure how to use his newly long limbs to best advantage all the time. Which he promptly proved by tripping over his feet as he went to shake her hand.

She giggled, but it didn't really sound mean, more startled. "Are you all right, Clark?"

He nodded and picked himself up off the floor. "There's just a lot more of me to keep track of, now."

"You have time in your delivery schedule to get something to eat? I've got a pumpkin bread that should be cool enough to cut, now."

"Um, are you sure?" He was hungry. He was always hungry, had been for the last year or so, but he wasn't sure his dad would approve of customers feeding him.

"Oh, hon, I'm going to have to give away about three-quarters of what I make during my binge. There aren't preservatives in it, so it'll go bad before I can eat it all. You'd be doing me a favor." She went to her cupboard and started pulling out dishes.

What could he do but sit down and accept her largess? "Okay, thanks!"


	3. Chapter 3

And this was all pretty standard, except that when she bent over to give him the pumpkin bread, three or four inch thick slices that still had steam coming from them her robe opened up to nearly her waist, and Clark could see she wasn't wearing any clothes at all.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Thompson; did I pull you out of the shower or something? I can just leave the produce in the back if you're busy. Today, I just, I didn't see a note so I wasn't sure what to do."

She laughed at him and poured a glass of milk at the same time, which seemed very much like something his mother would do, except she would wear many more clothes to do it. She reached across him to put the glass down and her breasts swung in his face. Her nipples were hard and brown, and her skin was golden, like his and Lana's, not creamy like Chloe's. He bit his lower lip instead of sucking on Mrs. Thompson's tit. It was so wrong to get a boner because of your former Sunday school teacher, even if she was naked and, uh, ripe not two inches in front of your nose.

He hoped maybe the blush would take all of the blood from his penis, or, the hardon would stop the blush faster than usual, but he had his doubts.

Mrs. Thompson tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Enough so he knew he did something wrong, but not so hard he felt compelled to say, 'ow!' She tied her robe back up, a little more tightly this time. "I _told_ you to call me Bobbie, Clark. You're not in my Little Lambs Sunday school class anymore."

He swallowed. He felt hot and dry all over. "I'm sorry, Bobbie." He picked up his milk and drank half of it.

"And, no, you didn't get me out of the shower."

Clark nodded, took a bite of pumpkin bread.

"It gets so hot in this kitchen if I'm baking and canning at the same time, I like to work naked."

He choked.


	4. Chapter 4

The next time Clark made produce deliveries, Mrs. Thompson was not on the list. Afterwards, he still went back to the Fortress of Solitude and masturbated.

He read all of the book of Psalms before dinner to make up for it, because he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to think those sorts of things about his Sunday school teacher.


	5. Chapter 5

The next time Clark knocked on Mrs. Thompson's door, he jumped a foot in the air.

That's because she snuck up behind him and poked him in the side.

She laughed hard at him, and they caught their breath at about the same time. "You've got to relax a little, Clark. You're too young to be so serious and nervous."

"Well, yeah, but the deliveries are important, and I _just_ got my license, and you scared the sh—stuffing out of me."

"I'm sorry," she said, but her grin was more amused than sorry. It made her look about twelve, an illusion helped along by the short-shorts and sports bra under an open flannel she wore.

Except that no twelve year old girl should be as well endowed as Mrs. Thompson.


	6. Chapter 6

"Clark, honey, close your mouth and come on in the kitchen. I've got some apple pie and some honest-to-goodness homemade ginger beer."

Clark ducked his head as he felt himself go brilliantly red, then followed her in. He tried to concentrate on balancing his awkward bundles of vegetables and not on Mrs. Thompson's bottom.

He put the produce bins in the kitchen and turned to see Mrs. Thompson putting two plates of pie on the table.

"You're a really good baker, Mrs. Thompson—."

"Bobbie, I said." She stuck her tongue out at him.

Clark shivered. "Bobbie. I like your food, but you don't have to keep feeding me."

"I _like_ feeding teenage boys, Clark." She was pouring a dark golden liquid in two glasses. "Am I keeping you from making your deliveries on time?"

"No."

"Am I spoiling your dinner?"

He laughed involuntarily. "I'm _always_ hungry."

"Then eat!"


	7. Chapter 7

The pie was good.

That was all Clark could clearly remember about the rest of the afternoon. "The pie was good." Well, that, and the fact that the ginger beer was good but didn't seem anything like ginger ale from the store.

He had no idea what they'd talked about, but it lasted an hour and involved a lot of laughter. And laughter involved, well, jiggling.

Mrs. Thompson's breasts were constantly quivering and bobbling and moving and Clark just couldn't look away. He thought, actually, that some of the laughter was because his eyes were fixed so firmly downwards.

She hugged him on his way out the door. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and he could feel her breasts, imagined he could feel her _nipples_ pressing just above his stomach, in his ribs.

He was sufficiently late getting home that he had to do all of his evening chores with a hard on, instead of jerking off before getting to work.


	8. Chapter 8

The next time Clark saw Mrs. Thompson's breasts completely bare, they were covered in scratches and a little bloody. She was attacking them with tweezers.

"Clark, honey," she'd asked him over a small plate of spaghetti squash and a glass of lemonade, "could I get you to help me put my clothesline back up? It came down in the last big storm, and I'm sick of draping all my panties and such around the house to dry."

He'd nodded, and they'd gone outside, both of them wearing gloves to deal with the heavy rough-hewn posts. But she was in a thin, short t-shirt, and she'd had a wooden post practically supported by her breasts alone five or six times.

When they were done, she ran to the bathroom and he followed and got an eyeful.

"Motherfucker. Owww. Goddamnit," she muttered.

"Um, are you okay?" Clark mentally smacked himself. People who were cursing and pouring iodine over themselves were obviously not okay. "Can I help?"

"Motherfucking son of a bitch." A particularly long and bloody splinter landed on the floor. "Yeah." She handed over the iodine and the tweezers.

In about ten minutes, he was done and Bobbi had her shirt back on.

He fled to the kitchen. Well, fled was probably too strong a word. He strode calmly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he got a glass and poured himself some water.

Bobbi showed up as he was finishing the fourth glass. She had on a sports bra. "Clark, are you okay, kid? You look a little, uh, green."

"Mrs. Thompson, I just, I think my parents would be mad if they knew how often I saw your breasts. I don't think it's—. There's something—. My dad would kill me."

"What's wrong with my breasts?"

"There's nothing wrong with them. They're very nice breasts. It's just that," he shrugged, first one shoulder and then the other, "they're yours and I shouldn't look at them unless I'm going to touch them, and I'm kinda young to touch them, don't you think?"

She tilted her head sideways and looked at him very seriously for a minute. "To be perfectly honest, Clark, I think you're exactly the right age to touch them. You're a very attractive boy, and I think I would enjoy having sex with you. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable, and I do want to be your friend. So, what can I do?"

Being treated like a rational adult calmed Clark down considerably. He was pretty sure that he wanted to see Mrs. Thompson's breasts whenever she was willing to show them; he was just concerned that this was wrong.

He was of two minds about this. On the one hand, his former Sunday School teacher wanted to have sex with him, and wouldn't she _know_ if that were wrong? On the other hand, his former Sunday School teacher wanted to have sex with him, which made him strongly suspect she was completely out of her mind. There was only one way to attack a difficult problem such as this. Clark put on his winningest grin. It felt a little wobbly around the edges, and he tried harder. "Feed me?"

The heat of the homemade ginger beer was perfectly complemented by the sweetness of the homemade vanilla icecream.


	9. Chapter 9

Clark's life was in a rhythm. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he would deliver produce to ten people and end up at Bobbie's. She was always in the middle of a task—cooking three things at once, cleaning her bathroom, dying her hair— that required her to be wet, naked, or scantily clothed. He would assist her, and then they would eat.

The rhythm was broken when Charlie Thompson came home for Christmas from UT Austin. For more than a month, Bobbie became Mrs. Thompson, wore lots of clothes, and sent him home with baked goods instead of letting him hang out in her kitchen.

He missed her. And not, he thought, as he turned over on his couch in the barn, just for the boobs. The boobs were quite nice, yes, but also, he missed having someone around who didn't treat him like 'that dork, Kent' or like a little kid.

His parents didn't trust him with anything important. He could only go to school dances if they were chaperoning. He couldn't join the basketball team. He could only do his chores on the farm _after_ all of the hands had gone home, so they wouldn't find out he was different.

And Pete was his best friend, but Pete was getting weird. All he could talk about was girls, and Clark just wasn't comfortable with that. He had too much he could say, but he knew he couldn't say anything or Mrs. Thompson would get in trouble. Pete he might have trusted to keep a secret from everyone except Chloe, but Chloe would have told everyone and anyone she could think of that he was being molested.

Which he wasn't, because that would have been creepy and gross and scary, when some hairy old man was trying to touch his butt, and Mrs. Thompson was just…friendly with him. Friendly and naked, yeah, but she wasn't making him do anything.

In fact, he'd been thinking lately that he'd like to touch her. He was pretty sure she'd let him, if he could just figure out how to ask.


	10. Chapter 10

Charlie Thompson went back to school the second week of February. Clark made the last delivery of preserves for the season the third week of February. Bobbie was back when he walked in the door.

She wasn't naked or wet, but she wore a tight sweater dress, cut daringly low, and she offered to make him fried dough, which cooked quickly but had to be eaten on the spot before it got cold and gross.

He accepted eagerly. In the kitchen, he saw applesauce and a powder sugar shaker and hot cider on the table, and smiled. Then he turned around and hugged her tight. "Man, I missed you while Charlie was here. It wasn't the same at all."

Bobbie was stiff in his arms a second, then slack, then she seemed to pull herself together and wrap her arms around him. "I missed you, too, Clark," she whispered into his ear, then kissed his cheek, just a peck.

Clark turned his face towards her mouth but didn't really try to kiss her. He still wasn't sure what the rules were, what he was allowed to do. He wanted her to want him to be there, in the way she clearly hadn't when faced with her son.

She kissed him, though, pressed her lips firmly to his own, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to open his mouth and lick inside of hers. It was wet and hot and sweet and he felt soft, like he was fuzzy velour wrapped tight around her body.

He picked her up, didn't notice he had done it at first, but bending to kiss her was giving him a crick in the neck, and they didn't seem to be stopping, so he lifted, at first at her elbows. When one of her feet hit his knees he realized that lifting someone by their elbows wasn't the most normal thing in the world. Also, it couldn't be comfortable for her. So he put one arm behind her back and the other underneath her ass and pulled up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, and whoah! he was so hard now, so hard.

His skin itched all over and his face was hot and he wanted to take Bobbie's clothes off of her so bad. He wanted to take her clothes off and his clothes off and rub his dick, in his hands or on her body or maybe even inside her, he didn't care, he just needed someone or something to touch his dick. He was so hard, and so hot. He was going to explode. "Bobbie," he whispered. "Bobbie, please."

He didn't know what he was asking for, but when she said, "Upstairs, honey, the bedroom's upstairs," he figured that was close enough. He'd been up there before, helping her move some furniture around. Just as well, because he walked in and put her on the bed without turning on a light. Her curtains were drawn, but they were thin and the light from sunset leaked through, but that wouldn't last much longer.

"You," he told her, pointing up and down her body. "I'll tear it." He doesn't trust himself really when he's this excited. He can be clumsy and break things. He took off his clothes, congratulated himself on not tearing anything or popping buttons, ripping the zipper out of his jeans. He was so hard, and something funny was happening to his vision, a fuzziness around the edges.

But he could see well enough to see a completely naked Bobbie on the bed, and he was so happy. She had acres of skin, soft with the lightest layer of almost invisible hair, like a bright yellow peach. Except for a dark, hairy patch between her legs and he couldn't quite look _there_ head on, but her breasts were familiar territory, full and brown-tipped and he leaned forward and sucked on one.

She sighed and laid backwards, put her arms around his head. "Clark, you're so sweet," she said. He didn't really understand how she came to that conclusion, but he didn't really care either. "Come up here," she said, tugging on his arms.

Clark slithered up Bobbie's body, and my Lord! he was touching a naked lady. With his own naked body. He felt like someone else, like he'd crept in and stolen somebody else's life, because there was no way someone like _Mrs. Thompson_ would be having sex with him. Except she pretty much almost entirely was.

Then she kissed him and touched his penis, and whoops! Also, wow! Oh my god! And _motherfucker_, orgasms are so much more exciting when caused by other people.

Clark's head cleared a little, and he realized that Bobbie had probably expected a little more than the chance to see _him_ naked. His face flushed, but in a distinctly less pleasant way than it had. "Um, I'm sorry. I just. I've never. With someone else."

She laughed at him, chuckles falling from her mouth like leaves from autumn trees, pretty and crackly dry. "It's okay, Clark. You're still so young." She rubbed her hand, the clean one, over his chest. He felt himself getting hard again, but nowhere near there yet. "You should touch me." She took his hand and brought it between her now spread legs.

Clark froze. He was pretty sure that he shouldn't treat a woman the way he would a cow, and anyway, he pretty much only touched cow vaginas when calves were coming out of them.

Bobbie laughed again, pressed harder and farther down. "You won't break me, Clark. The vulnerable bits are pretty much on the inside for a girl."

Clark nodded, but he still wasn't moving his hand independently.

"Feel how it's wet down there, honey? That's because I want you. Stick your fingers in the hole, baby, all the wet will make it easy. Yeah, yeah, Clark, just like that."

Clark's whole hand was wet and hot, and Bobbie was sort of riding on him, her thighs tensing and releasing until she was practically riding on his wrist. She still had her hand wrapped around his cock and she was squeezing it tight, but it felt good. Clark was hard again, and he had to concentrate hard not to go too fast in and out of Bobbie's body. Had to be gentle and nice and, god, she was rubbing the head of his cock, under his foreskin. Clark was starting to squirm, the sensation was so much, almost too much. "Bobbie, please. I need…."

"Clark," she breathed. "Put your mouth on me, baby. Bend your head down and just lick around down there."

And Clark thought that sounded kind of crazy, but he needed her to stop squeezing his penis before his head fell off, so he did. He got down there and licked and swallowed and the taste was _weird_ but he kind of liked it, heavy and thick and just a little sweet. He was less afraid of hurting her with his tongue, and there was all of this _stuff_ between her legs. I mean, girls looked like they were simple when you just looked at pictures in fashion magazine, but there were crevices and folds to lick at and nibble on and this knob at the top of her hole and when he sucked on that she whimpered and when he flicked back and forth with his tongue, Bobbie grabbed his head with her thighs and pounded on his back and said, "Clark, oh my God! Oh my god!" It took a little while for Clark to figure out she'd had an orgasm because there wasn't any come to clue him in.

He was really hard by this time, painfully hard, but Bobbie was out of it. He didn't feel like he could just put it in her when she was like this, so he jerked himself off really quickly, then went and got a towel to clean himself off. He almost cleaned Bobbie up with the same towel, and then he thought, "Sperm! Pregnancy! Babies!" and dropped the towel like it contained dangerous nuclear radiation and might turn him into a mutant. He got another towel to wipe Bobbie up with.

Bobbie was pretty much back to reality when he finished cleaning her off. She smiled at him and pulled him down on the bed. "Thank you, Clark. That was lovely."

Clark felt himself blush and looked away again. "You're welcome," he whispered.

She laughed again, rich and hearty. "You know, I promised you food about an hour ago. You still want fried dough?"

He nodded eagerly.


End file.
